


Marked

by lionessvalenti



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: M/M, Other, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, Unreliable Narrator, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/pseuds/lionessvalenti
Summary: There isn't a dry patch on this entire god-forsaken rock, and Ephraim can't remember what it's like to not be damp in every crevice.
Relationships: Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow/Tentacles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59
Collections: New Year's Sins Flash Exchange





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fairleigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/gifts).



Ephraim is wet. There isn't a dry patch on this entire god-forsaken rock, and he can't remember what it's like to not be damp in every crevice. His trousers, heavy with moisture, rub against his skin as he climbs the stairs of the lighthouse.

The light turns, mottled through the locked grates. He can hear Wake, but there's no words, only sounds. It might be whispers, but every sound the man makes is like a rock scraping against the inside of Ephraim's mind, knowing he has to respond to everything when a nod would suffice.

_Aye, sir. Aye, sir. Aye. Aye. Aye. Fucking **damn you to hell** , aye, sir._

He squints up into the light, trying to see, when water rains down from above, and it's another goddamn leak Ephraim will inevitably need to repair, climbing to the top of the highest point of hell itself, but it's not, he realizes, as it hits against his face. It's piss. It's Wake's piss. The same goddamn piss that Ephraim has been carting out of their sleeping quarters into the ocean daily.

But it's not. It's not stale and stinking and cold, it's warm. It might be wet, but it's the first bit of warmth Ephraim has felt in what could have been years. He can't remember warmth until it's dripping down his face, the drops rolling down his neck, soaking into his shirt. 

He should step back out of the stream, but he lets it caress his skin. He swallows hard, his body shaking as the piss tapers off. He leans against the wall, barely holding up his own weight, and his prick throbs, rubbing against the front of his wet trousers.

Wake slams against the grates, and Ephraim jumps, stumbling down a couple of stairs. His heart pounds in his throat, staring up at Wake, who is face-down on the grates with one glassy eye open. Wake opens his mouth and he lets out a guttural groan.

That's when Ephraim sees it: the tentacles sliding over the floor, blocking out the light, moving over Wake's body, and -- the monster, the tentacled thing, it's fucking Wake, one thick tendril shoved between Wake's saggy, wrinkled ass cheeks. Wake moans, his eye rolling up in the back of his head, and more liquid drips from above, this time thick, white jizzim.

Ephraim chokes back a curse, his throat seizing up as another tentacle pushes through the hole in the grates. He should run. Turn, go back to his bed, but the tentacle has him by the wrist. It's wet and cold, and his wrapped tightly around him.

"Get off!" Ephraim tries, trying to get his fingers beneath the ring of muscles and cartilage, but it's suctioned to him, pulling him up toward the light. "Ge'off!"

Shouting does nothing except attract the attention of more tentacles, each one plugging the holes in the floor, grabbing him, touching wet slime over his face. Wake focused in on him.

"Yer not ready, lad. I told ye. An' yet ye were marked." His mouth opens as if to speak again, but all that comes out of his mouth is the sound of the ocean. Giant waves crashing against the shore.

Ephraim shouts again, but this time, a tentacle pushes into his open mouth. It's brackish and bitter, fucking his throat like it's a loose woman.

It's all the same creature, Ephraim realizes with a strange sense of calm. He's connected to Wake, through the locked hatch, through the monster that's fucking the both of them.

He reaches up and touches his fingers, chapped and rough, against Wake's lower lip. It's tender, his lips surprisingly soft for an old scalawag. The tentacles are inside Ephraim's trousers now. He can feel the wet against his asshole, but it makes no difference; he can't remember the last time he'd been dry. He tries to scream when the tentacle penetrates him, but it's muffled.

Wake smiles. He opens his mouth and it's the sound of gulls.

Ephraim's orgasm is explosive, his entire body shaking, only held up by the tendrils wrapped around his every limb, shoved up his ass, fucking his throat. It's the last thing he remembers before waking up in his bed, damp and sore, clutching the scrimshaw mermaid in his hand.


End file.
